


American Dreaming

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “Holy shit,” Joe said after he’d wrenched the damn door open, which was clearly not the greeting Webster had been hoping for, from the way his smile stiffened into a proper grimace. Joe blinked at him for a long, bewildered second and then offered by way of recovery, “You’re here.”“I’m here,” Webster agreed. He swallowed, throat clenching and tongue darting out over the chapped pad of his bottom lip, and then added like he was afraid Joe might’ve forgotten, “You invited me.”
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix 2020





	American Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix.

Webster showed up on a Wednesday, with a handsomely battered travel case in hand and his jacket tucked over one elbow in concession to San Francisco’s unseasonable warm spell. He was standing on Joe’s doorstep and fidgeting like he was half a second from turning tail and flinging himself into the bay, though he settled to almost statuesque stillness when he saw Joe frowning at him through the wavering pane of glass in the front door’s small window. 

“Holy shit,” Joe said after he’d wrenched the damn thing open, which was clearly not the greeting Webster had been hoping for, from the way his smile stiffened into a proper grimace. Joe blinked at him for a long, bewildered second and then offered by way of recovery, “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Webster agreed. He swallowed, throat clenching and tongue darting out over the chapped pad of his bottom lip, and then added like he was afraid Joe might’ve forgotten, “You invited me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe replied, flapping a hand at him and stepping back to swing an inviting arm into the hallway behind him. “I know I did, I just - ” he cut off sharply as the words abandoned him—there were shockingly few polite ways to phrase the sentiment ‘I was only half-serious when I said it and the part of me that was didn’t really believe you would come’ without offending Webster’s timekeeping abilities at the very least. He shook his head instead, beckoning Webster inside.

Webster flashed him a look that was probably supposed to be gratitude but was altogether too queasy to land quite right. He followed Joe up the narrow staircase to the third floor, where Joe had left the door to his modest apartment half-askew in his urgency to storm down and have a serious discussion with whatever schmuck kept leaning on his buzzer so close to dinnertime.

Webster glanced around as he followed Joe into the cramped interior, but he didn’t say much beyond asking, “Where should I - ?” and giving his bag a shallow heft.

“Oh, uh,” Joe said, casting about for a suitable storage nook that didn’t involve inviting a ghost from the war back into the privacy of his bedroom. He gestured to the far side of the sofa, which had a small space between its curved arm and the wall. “Over there’s good, for now.”

Webster nodded and stowed his luggage as instructed, draping his jacket longways over the top. He smoothed his hands over his thighs, bunching and flattening the soft brown wool of his trousers, and then slipped them into his pockets, making a slow, curious circuit of the living room and the shelves full of bric-a-brac therein.

“So,” he said, turning to fix Joe with a muted smile once he had presumably decided everything was up to snuff or, at the very least, not worth arguing over so early in the trip.

“So,” Joe echoed snidely before he could help himself, wincing when Webster’s already lackluster grin dimmed further. He took a breath through his nose and sighed it out slow. “So,” he said again, gentler, “you made it.”

“I did,” Webster nodded.

Joe mirrored the motion and that heavy, choking silence started to build back up between them. He reached up to scratch at his eyebrow, fumbling for a response, and landed on, “You take the train?”

“Yeah.” Webster chewed at his lip for a second. No wonder it was chapped, if he’d been gnawing on it like that all the way from Los Angeles. “Caught the direct line this morning.”

“How was it?” Joe asked, and did his best not to make a face at his own ham-handedness.

Webster shrugged, looking just as out of his element as Joe felt. “It was okay. Kind of reminded me of the troop train, but with a better view. It comes up through Santa Clara, y’know?”

“Santa Clara, sure,” Joe agreed, though he didn’t know. He hadn’t traveled much until the looming threat of Hitler dragged him all the way to Europe, and his life had been similarly localized since his return, despite Webster’s occasional unsuccessful attempts to coax him down for a weekend in sunny Los Angeles. “You, uh. You hungry or anything?” Joe jerked a thumb toward the door at his back. “I was just about to grab a bite.”

Webster considered this for a second, those big, pale eyes wide under his lifted brows. “Yeah,” he said, and then repeated the sentiment, a little firmer. “Yeah, I could eat. What’d you have in mind?”

“There’s a deli, coupla blocks down. Does a pastrami on rye so good it’ll make you slap your mother.”

The corner of Webster’s mouth lifted up and he nodded again. “All right,” he said, raising his hands to rub them together. “Can I hit the head before we go?”

“Oh,” Joe blinked. It struck him, all at once, that this was David Webster standing in his living room, breathing the air and taking up space and preparing to spend the next several days, at least, inhabiting the same apartment as Joe. A swarm of something soft and warm erupted in Joe’s belly at the thought. “Oh, sure, yeah.” He shook himself out of it and gestured to the door in the corner. “Uh, right behind you.”

Webster nodded and turned, nudging the door carefully open and peering inside with that same mystified curiosity he had worn while he was poring over Joe’s shelves.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Joe added, and the way Webster’s features immediately dropped into withering flatness made him feel a lot better.

Webster was quick about relieving himself and tidying up after. They were on their way in short order, following a few minutes’ amiable squabbling about whether Webster ought to bring his jacket or not, in case the weather turned, as it often did this near the water.

“Nice night,” Joe observed, glancing out of the corner of his eye to where Webster was walking in step at his shoulder.

Webster hummed an acknowledgement and Joe grinned at the taut clench of his jaw.

“Still a sore loser, huh?” 

Webster rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t lose anything,” he muttered. The red-orange glow of the sun picked highlights through his dark hair and caught like an ember in the backs of those seastorm eyes. “I _elected_ to leave my coat behind after an abbreviated debate on the subject.”

Joe snorted and then whistled, long and low. “You’re really gettin’ a hang of that positive spin thing down at the Times, huh?”

Webster shot him a look, but there was enough amusement in it that Joe could tell he hadn’t stepped beyond any of Webster’s many, nonsensical lines in the sand.

“It is nice, though,” Webster conceded as they turned the corner onto Sixth Street. 

They were on something of a hilltop with the harbor all laid out underneath them, the last narrow wedge of the sun spitting sparks across the black mirror of the sea as it sank into the inky dark. Say what you would about New York or Chicago, Joe considered, relishing the soft, swift rush as Webster stifled a gasp, but he didn’t see how either place could recommend itself half so well as San Francisco did.

The deli wasn’t much of a walk from Joe’s place, but they made it through most of the garden variety small talk as they strolled along. Webster was enjoying his job at the paper, though the majority of what he wrote was still small potatoes. Joe spent his time trimming mops, or picking up the occasional evening shift at the wheel of a Checker Cab when he needed to pad his income. They had both heard from one or another of the boys here and there—mostly Guarnere, who ought to lead a knitting circle with the way he loved to gossip, though Major Winters sent everyone a brief missive once in awhile, checking in. 

He was apparently playing company man out in New Jersey now, with some measure of success, and didn’t that just figure? They didn’t talk about who else was out there with him, or about what reason he might have had to settle so far from his idyllic Pennsylvania home, but they both knew. It settled something in the air between them, made this whole scene—the two of them together, meandering side-by-side down the familiar streets of Joe’s hometown—seem less strange and impossible than it might have been a few minutes before.

The blue and white awning over Rosen’s was in need of a good wash, and from the way his mouth pursed when he saw it, Webster had noticed.

Joe bristled a little to witness this silent judgment of his favorite neighborhood eatery. He swatted at Webster’s shoulder and warned, “Better not suck on that lemon all night. Colleen sees you at it, she’ll string you up in the freezer ‘til you can’t feel your hands.”

“You’re not really selling me on this whole experience,” Webster said, hovering dubiously in front of the door. Joe rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” He clamped his hands over Webster’s shoulders and guided him inside.

The place was fairly packed for a weeknight, most of the counter occupied and only a few empty two-tops left tucked into the back corner. There was a short line of eager-faced patrons in front of the till, tapping their feet and scanning the menu or trading casual conversations with the other patrons who were seated in clusters all around them. 

As the door tinkled shut behind them, a voice rose over the steady hum of chatter to announce, “Well, if it isn’t little Joey Liebgott!”

The voice was husky and loud and belonged to the woman behind the register. She was stocky and sweet-faced with a riot of curls half-tucked underneath a butcher’s cap. Her apron—or at least, the apron she was wearing, considering that it had the name ‘Leon’ embroidered on the breast—had once been white with dusty blue stripes, though the overall effect was somewhat tarnished by the pink-tinged stains all over it. 

“Joey?” Webster asked, leaning in close and biting back a grin. Joe shoved him forward and Webster went, chuckling under his breath.

“Colleen,” Joe said to the woman, giving a little wave as he slotted into the line alongside Webster. She arched an unimpressed eyebrow at Joe then turned a broad grin on the woman at the head of the line, whom she greeted with equal familiarity but at a much lower volume.

“What’re you getting?” Webster asked. He was surveying the menu scrawled on the chalkboard against the far wall with somber scrutiny.

“I told you,” Joe reminded him. “Pastrami - ”

“ - on rye,” Webster finished, in the confident drawl of a man who’d just remembered a piece of prescient information. “Right. So good I’ll slap my mother.”

Joe grinned. “Damn right you will.”

Webster huffed a laugh through his nose and ducked his head, giving it a fond shake. He cast a curious glance over at Joe without lifting his chin up too far and tucked his lower lip back under his teeth. The overall effect was very winsome—Webster’s eyelashes were dark and long over his hooded gaze in a way that made Joe’s chest pull tight. Webster chewed at that pretty pink lip for a long moment, shuffling a few steps forward when the woman from the front of the line peeled away with a couple of neatly wrapped parcels in the crook of her elbow.

“I feel like I ought to come clean here, Joe,” he said, low and serious, once they had settled again.

Joe’s stomach spun toward his toes and snapped right back into place like a yo-yo. For a brief and harrowing second, he worried that he might throw up. 

“Oh yeah? What about?”

Webster shifted on his feet, ducking his gaze to the floor and back up, and confessed, “I don’t actually like pastrami all that much.”

All the fear rushed out of Joe like a fast-receding tide, the usual irritation flooding in to take its place. He rolled his eyes and slugged Webster in the shoulder, hard enough that Webster yelped and backed away even as he laughed.

“You ain’t never had _Colleen’s_ pastrami,” Joe protested. “Guaranteed it’s better than whatever slop they’re feeding you down in Double Dubuque.”

“L.A. is nice,” Webster argued, tucking his hands into his pockets and shifting back in close enough that their shoulders brushed. Joe glanced over at him but he had returned his attention to the menu overhead. “Which you would know if you ever bothered to come and visit me.”

“The hell would I go all the way down the coast for when I got you right here?” Joe grinned at him but Webster didn’t bother looking over. Just smirked and shook his head and continued his dedicated study of the menu.

For a second, Joe let himself look. Webster was much the same as he had been in the army, hair a little longer and waist a little thicker, but just as handsome as ever. He had probably been clean-shaven that morning but was already shaded dark from the bold plane of his jaw all the way down his neck. He had undone the topmost button of his shirt at some point and Joe could see the shallow notch at the base of his throat. He remembered how it felt to press his tongue to the sweat-damp skin there, the prickling buzz of Webster’s skin as he moaned.

Joe sighed through his nose and turned away.

Because there was no justice in the world, Colleen and Webster got along like a house afire, even after Webster committed the ultimate sin of ordering a fucking Rueben instead of the pastrami on rye.

“You’re gonna regret that later,” Joe warned, as they carted their steaming plates to an empty table tucked way back into the corner.

“I’ll just steal a bite of yours,” Webster shrugged, sliding into his seat, green eyes wide over his smug smile.

“Not if you value your life, you won’t,” Joe muttered, and dropped down across from him.

The table was small enough that their knees knocked together, not that Joe minded. After a few minutes of kicking at each other like infants and currying a slew of unimpressed glowers from other nearby patrons, they settled into a sort of zippered pattern—one of Joe’s knees between Webster’s thighs and one of Webster’s knees between his own thighs in return. It was still bizarre, having Webster here, close enough that Joe could feel the heat off him while he moaned over his sandwich and licked sauce from his fingers with all the coquettish flair of a two-dollar prostitute. Kind of nice, too, though, if Joe was being honest. Not that he would admit that aloud under pain of permanent injury, or worse.

“You were right,” Webster said, sucking his thumb and running his tongue over his teeth. “This is _amazing.”_

“It’s the wrong damn sandwich, is what it is.” Joe shifted in his seat, trying to relieve a little of the pressure building up below his beltline, and reached over to swat at the air in front of Webster’s face. “And keep your hands outta your mouth, will you? God knows where they’ve been.”

Webster dropped his hands obediently to the table, but he licked his lips, slow and sultry. There was a flush of color high in his cheeks, and the corner of his mouth was curling in the way it always did when he was on the verge of begging for a fight—or something sweeter.

“I can think of a few good places to put them.”

“Jesus,” Joe hissed, ducking his head and pressing a palm over his mouth. He glanced around to make sure nobody was listening in, shook his head—with his hand still firmly in place—and narrowed his eyes across the table at Webster. He sat up just enough to speak and accused, “You don’t got a goddamn lick of shame, do you?”

“Pot?” Webster shrugged and leaned back in his seat, letting his legs stretch out so that most of his thigh slid along most of Joe’s. He nudged their knees together. “Kettle.”

It was entirely possible that this vacation had, in fact, been a terrible idea. Smart money was on the likelihood that Joe and Webster would wind up killing each other before the week was out. Joe shoved his tongue between his lower lip and his teeth, chewing for a second before he jerked his chin to the hallway just past Webster’s shoulder.

“Toilets are back there,” he instructed, in a low rasp. “Five minutes.”

Webster’s eyes widened in surprise, grin splitting broad and sharp across his face. He picked up his napkin, wiped demurely at his mouth, and pushed to his feet with the lazy grace of a well-to-do layabout. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled down the hall, not bothering to spare a backwards glance at Joe as he went.

Joe watched him until he’d disappeared into the men’s washroom—the pull of his slacks over his ass and the shallow sway of his hips—and then cast an irritated glance at his watch. Four minutes and thirty seconds. He sat there for as long as he could stand, tapping his toe against the linoleum and trying not to think too hard about Webster fisting his own cock in one of the stalls.

“Fuck it,” he muttered two minutes later, shoving off the table so hard he nearly knocked his chair over.

They might kill each other, sure, Joe considered as he hurried along in Webster’s wake, but damned if they wouldn’t have some fun along the way.


End file.
